“It’s just…it’s been a year. Since they…took Rachel. Today would have been her birthday.” She was aware she was speaking of Rachel in the past tense. “And every day since then, I’ve wondered what I could have done differently. What I could have done in those precious two minutes that might have saved Rachel and her family. Aviva would still have a family. And so would I.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

“I should have.”

“Look, Allard, you—”

“I didn’t do enough. I didn’t act quickly enough.” She didn’t want to hear the excuses that he would make for her. God knew she didn’t want to hear her own.

“You did everything you could.”

“They came the next day, you know,” she murmured. “Stripped the Wylers’ apartment of everything valuable. The furniture, the rugs, Serge’s books, Rachel’s jewelry, the fine plate and silver that had belonged to her mother. I think, on that day, deep down, I knew they weren’t coming back.”

“You have to forgive yourself, Allard.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

Jerome stepped closer to her. “How can I help?”

It was the gentle way he’d said it that broke her. She looked away, not even bothering to wipe away the new round of tears she could feel leaking down her cheeks.

Jerome reached out and gently wiped them away with the cuff of his sleeve, and somehow that made the tears come faster. This time, he simply put his arms around her and drew her into his embrace.

“I’m afraid,” she said when she was able, her words somewhat muffled by the front of his shirt.

“Of what?”

“Not of. For. I’m afraid for Aviva.” She sniffed gracelessly. “I’m afraid that that little girl is not going to survive this war. I’m afraid that I won’t be able to keep the promise I made to Rachel to keep her safe. I’m afraid that this damn war has no end.”

“I wish I could help. I wish I could take her out of France for you,” he said. “But we can’t take a child. She’d never survive the journey into Spain. The mountains or the rivers would—”

“I know,” Estelle said, nodding miserably. “I know you can’t. That’s why I’ve not asked you. I don’t even have papers for her.”

Jerome winced. “God, I’m sorry, I can’t even help you with that. I don’t know who the forgers are in Belgium but I could try and find out—”

“No. Those sorts of questions draw attention and could expose you. You are too important to the men whose lives depend on you.”

“What about Vivienne? She might know a local forger who could—”